


Thy will be done (on earth as it is in heaven)

by fairywearsbootz



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombies, Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-27
Updated: 2012-09-27
Packaged: 2017-11-15 03:50:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/522817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairywearsbootz/pseuds/fairywearsbootz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Connor and Murphy vs. the evil armies of the living dead. It's like any other day, except with less electricity. Or a functioning civil society.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thy will be done (on earth as it is in heaven)

**Author's Note:**

> Again, originally written for [this zombie apocalypse comment ficathon](http://magisterequitum.livejournal.com/524169.html), for the prompt "The boondock saints, connor/murphy, _and death follows with them_ ".

“By all ye Saints,” Murphy says, “looks like someone undid all our good work, don’t it?”

“Aye.” Connor lights two fags; gives one to Murphy and watches his brother inhale with a smile like a promise. “Looks like we’re damn well back at square one.”

#

Nothing has changed, except that all government forces to stop them are gone and it’s become much easier to spot their targets. It’s not like they had any illusions about the good of man to start with, anyway.

#

When they run out of ammo, they get creative. Connor scours some chemistry books from an abandoned bookshop; builds pipe bombs filled with broken glass, filled with rusty nails, filled with bleach and acid and once, as an experiment, holy water (it doesn’t work, but then again, it didn’t before, either, did it?). Murphy spends two weeks devising a hundred and one ways to kill with nothing but a rope.

“You and your fucking rope,” Connor swears, his voice hoarse, Murphy’s teeth hovering inches above his throat.

“Oh, come on, you know you love it,” his brother murmurs, and Connor arches his back; grips the rough hemp slung around his wrists tighter, tighter, tighter still.

#

Death still follows in their wake wherever they go; only now they sometimes retrace their steps to bring it back a second time.

#

They find enough food, and cigarettes in abundance.

“Why on earth would you start living healthy _now_?” Murphy asks incredulously as they find another shop, raided except for tobacco and liquor.

“Beats me,” Connor says as he pulls a bottle of 20-year-old Scotch off the rack with a grin, “but I sure don’t plan on doin’ it myself.”

Whenever they can, they stay in churches – out of habit, out of some nostalgic feeling they avoid questioning further. Churches are sanctuaries; will be so forever, no matter if the doors are shattered, the windows broken, and the blood of priests and altar boys taints wood and stone and gold.

In the dark of the night they confess their sins to each other, whispering them on their knees in the confessional, whispering them on beds of curtains and drapes into each other’s skin.

“May God give you pardon and peace,” Connor breathes into his brother’s hair; feels Murphy’s answer in his heartbeat, in the taste of his sweat, in the hitch of his voice when he says his name; in the way his body swallows his own.

They don’t say any other prayers, not anymore. 

What for? Their kingdom’s already come.

#

“I think we’re gonna need to branch out again,” Connor says one late red afternoon, his voice laced with disbelief. “You’d think all of this would’ve taught ‘em a thing or two.”

Down the street are the first living humans they’ve seen in weeks: a mother, her two children, and three men. One of the men has a knife at the woman’s throat. His buddy’s wrestling her daughter to the ground while the last one’s just sent her brother flying with a vicious right hook.

“Some people just can’t take a hint,” Murphy agrees, and lets his his new aluminium bat swish through the cool autumn air.

#

_Aequitas_ , it says on Murphy’s knuckles, and yes, all men _are_ equal now.

_Veritas_ , Connor’s tattoo spells, and yes, the truth is all around them: That man’s evil, always has been, always will be, and there'll never be a time when they’re not needed anymore.

#

“Maybe we should make a plan.”

Connor shifts on the narrow mattress they found in a vicar’s flat, tries to make some room for himself and gets his brother’s elbow in his ribs instead. “Ow, fuck you,” he swears, wriggles until Murphy’s arm is buried underneath him. “Much better.”

“A plan, Con, are you listening to me?”

“Murphy,” Connor says gravely, putting all the weight of his elder years into his voice, “the world’s coming to a fucking end; what kind of _plans_ do you think we should be making?”

#

Winter comes and finds them on top of their old apartment building, looking over the streets that now belong to them and them alone. Far below them figures sway left to right, down the alleys.

“I thought we got the last of them when we burnt down that warehouse,” Murphy says, takes a long swig of a bottle of Bourbon. Connor shrugs, draws up his shoulders to light his cigarette.

“Guess we’re gonna have to start all over again.”

“Aye,” Murphy says, and grins, all gleaming white teeth and dirt-streaked face. With a couple of fluid steps he gathers enough momentum to catapult the empty bottle far into the streets below; turns back to Connor and opens his arms wide, his dark heavy wool coat a sinner’s robe, a saint’s robe – as if either of those words still held any meaning to them. “You ready?” he asks, eyes flashing and smirk cock-sure.

“More than you’ll ever be,” Connor says, and grabs his brother’s hand, skin on skin and pulse on pulse, and death still follows in their wake, but it’s gonna be a damn long time before it ever catches up.


End file.
